


Waste not, want not

by Hypatia_66



Series: Early days [12]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: section7mfu, Gen, Poverty, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: basket, cake, blueIllya learns about food sustainability





	Waste not, want not

New York 1959

He had to ask where to buy food – far more important than where to get a new shirt. His new partner gave him directions to various delis – a word he didn’t recognise, though he knew what it was when he found it – and to a supermarket, a concept he had come across in London where it was not, as he now realised, quite the same as in New York.

Brought up to believe that London lay under a permanent layer of thick fog, and that America was a dust bowl full of starving peasants, Illya had discovered, from recent experience, how much he had been misled in both respects.

Possibly only the inhabitants of the Oklahoma dust bowl would have understood what it was like, and what it meant, to be suddenly transported to a land flowing with milk and honey, where you could ask for anything and you would be given. Correction – you would be given if you had money, or if the initiative and energy to earn it hadn’t been beaten out of you by starvation and hopelessness.

He’d been lucky – more than lucky – to escape famine, to escape the bombs when they destroyed his home, to survive and be transported to places only dreamed of, and ultimately to make of his life whatever he chose. He wondered what it would be like to go back, and whether he would be welcomed by babushki offering the traditional greeting of bread and salt.

Suddenly homesick, he thought about the harvest at home in what was now called the Breadbasket of Europe. People here talked knowledgeably about traditional Ukrainian dishes like vareniki, golubtsi, okroshka, and galushki with smetana – expecting him to be equally knowledgeable about them. Until he came here, he’d never tasted them. There had been almost nothing to eat during the war, and not much after it. It was the same all over Europe – but America… America had been a revelation. So much food, so much of everything… and they wasted so much of it.

Staring almost catatonically at a display of fruit, that thought roused him from his reverie and though he continued to fill the basket, he tried not to put too much in. That was how it happened, of course. So much was available, there was a temptation to buy it anyway. It didn’t matter if you threw it away, there was always more. In America, there would never be any need to join a line to buy whatever might have become available that day, whether you wanted it or not. At home once, he recalled it had been shoelaces, another day he’d bought a cake of soap, the first for many months. He had stood for hours on another day waiting and waiting… to find it was socks, just blue socks – no other colours. There was a hole in his present socks – he could buy some new ones easily, throw the old ones away. But he probably wouldn’t. No-one ever threw anything away at home. Maybe he’d get someone in Del Floria’s to darn them – did they darn things? If not, would one of the girls? He’d have to ask Napoleon if that was something you could request.

A wonderful scent came from a tray in front of him. Peaches? No, these were smooth. He picked one up and held it to his nose, then looked at the label. Nectarines. He’d never heard of them. They could have been the Golden Apples of the Hesperides – and he didn’t even need to perform a Herculean labour to acquire them.

He was alerted to a presence behind him by a slight cough. He turned to find Napoleon standing there holding a basket. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said.

“Yes, I found it easily,” Illya replied and, holding out the nectarine, said, “I’ve never seen one of these before. What are they like?”

Napoleon smiled, “They’re pretty nice, why not get some.” He looked down at Illya’s basket and smiled. It was an extraordinary mixture. “Is that tonight’s meal?” he enquired.

Ilya flushed. “There’s so much I’ve never seen before,” he said, “I wanted to try a bit of everything.”

“Are you a good cook?”

“No. I only know how to do a few things,” he admitted, still a little pink.

“If you like, I’ll show you some useful techniques when you come to dinner tonight.”

“Oh! Am I coming to dinner?”

“Certainly, you are – at least I hope so. Would you _like_ to have dinner with me?”

“Yes, very much. Thank you. Shall I put all this back?”

Napoleon laughed. “No, take it home. Have it tomorrow – when I’ve shown you what to do with it. Now, what would you like to eat tonight?”

If Illya had been pink before, he was now crimson. He could choose? “Everything, anything… anything at all,” he said.


End file.
